by Eric Flint
"You! Maybe you're not too old to have lost all your wits! Maybe. How would you handle it?"
For a moment, Menander was too stunned to speak. Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Well. Well. Actually, while you were talking I was thinking about how the general—Belisarius, I mean—handled the situation with the Kushans. The second situation with the Kushans, I mean—not the first one where he tricked Venandakatra out of using them as guards—but the other one, where he—well, they were guarding us but didn't know the Empress—Shakuntala, I mean, not Theodora—was hidden in—well."
He stopped, floundering. Drew a deep, shaky breath.
"What I mean is, I was struck by it at the time. How the general used honey instead of vinegar."
Antonina sighed. Relaxed, a bit.
"You're promoted," she growled. "Tribune Men-ander, you are."
The eyes which she now turned on her assembled officers were no longer hot.
Oh, but they were very, very cold.
"Here—is—what—you—will—do. You will find the wives and daughters—and the sons and fathers and mothers and brothers and for that matter the second cousins twice-removed—of those soldiers forted up in that place."
Deep breath. Icy cold eyes.
"More precisely, you and your cataphracts will escort the Knights Hospitaler while they do the actual finding. You and your soldiers will stand there looking as sweet and polite as altar boys—or I'll have your guts for breakfast—while the Knights Hospitaler convince the soldiers' families that a potentially disastrous situation for their husbands and fathers and sons and brothers—and for that matter third cousins three times removed—would be resolved if the families would come back to their homes and reopen the shops. And—most important—would cook some meals."
"Cook meals?" choked Hermogenes.
A wintry smile.
"Yes. Meals. Big meals, like the ones I remember from my days here. Spicy meals. The kind of meals you can smell a mile away."
She gazed at the fortress, still smiling.
"Let the soldiers smell those meals, while they're chewing on their garrison biscuits. Let them think about their warm beds—with their wives in them—while they sleep on the battlements in full armor. Let them think about their little shops and their father-in-laws' promises that they'll inherit the business, while Ambrose gives speeches."
"They'll never agree to it," squeaked Ashot. "Their wives and daughters, I mean. And their families."
He squared his shoulders, faced Antonina bravely. "They won't come back. Not with us here. Hell, I wouldn't, come down to it."
An arctic smile. "That I can believe. Which is why you won't be here. Not you, not your cataphracts. Not Hermogenes, nor his infantry regulars. I'll be here, as a guarantee. Their own hostage, if they want to think of it that way."
"What?" demanded Hermogenes. "Alone?"
Suddenly, Antonina's usual warm smile returned. "Alone? Of course not! What a silly idea. My grenadiers will stay here with me. Along with their wives, and their children."
All the officers now stared at Euphronius. The young Syrian met that gaze with his own squared shoulders. And then, with a grin.
"Great idea. Nobody'll worry about us raping anybody." A shudder. "God, my wife'd kill me!"
Ashot turned back to Antonina. The short, muscular Armenian was practically gobbling.
"What if Ambrose sallies?" he demanded. "Do you think your grenadiers—alone—can stand up to him?"
Antonina never wavered. "As a matter of fact—yes. Here, at least."
She pointed down the thoroughfare to the fortress. "We're not on an open field of battle, Ashot. There's only two ways Ambrose can come at me. He can send his men through all the little crooked side streets—and I will absolutely match my grenadiers against him in that terrain—"
All the officers were shaking their heads. No cataphract in his right mind would even think of driving armored horses through that rabbit warren.
"—or, he can come at me with a massed lance charge down that boulevard. Which is what he'll do, if he does anything. Down that beautiful boulevard—which is just wide enough to tempt a horseman, but not wide enough to maneuver."
She bestowed a very benign, approving smile upon the boulevard in question.
"And yes, on that terrain, my grenadiers will turn him into sausage."
She drew herself up in the saddle, sitting as tall as she could. Which was not much, of course.
"Do as I say."
Her officers hastened to obey, then, with no further protest.
Possibly, that was due to the iron command in her voice.
But possibly—just possibly—it was because when she drew herself up in the saddle the blazing sun of Egypt reflected off her cuirass at such an angle as to momentarily blind her generals. And make a short woman seem like a giantess.
By noon of the next day, the first families began trickling back into Nicopolis. Antonina was there to greet them, from the pavilion she had set up in the very middle of the boulevard.
The first arrivals approached her timidly. But, finding that the legendary Antonina—she of the Cleaver—was, in person, a most charming and sweet-tempered lady, they soon began to relax.
By nightfall, hundreds had returned, and were slowly beginning to mingle with the grenadiers. All of the Syrians could speak Greek now, even if many of them still spoke it badly. So they were able to communicate with the soldiers' families. Coptic was the native language of most of those folk, but, as was universally the case in Alexandria, they were fluent in Greek as well.
By morning of the day after, the soldiers' families were quite at ease with the grenadiers. True, the men were a bit scary, what with their bizarre and much-rumored new weapons. But their wives were a familiar thing, even if they were foreign Syrians, as were their children. And it is difficult—impossible, really—to be petrified by a man who is playing with his child, or being nagged by his wife.
By the end of that second day, half of Nicopolis' residents had returned. Antonina's presence and assurances, combined with worry over their businesses and properties, proved irresistable.
On the morning of the following day, Antonina called for a feast. At her own expense, foodstuffs were purchased from all over the city. The great thoroughfare—not three hundred yards from the fortress—was turned into an impromptu, gigantic, daylong picnic.
As the picnic progressed, some of the wives of the garrison soldiers began to approach the fortress. Calling up to their husbands.
The first negotiations began, in a matter of speaking. Soldiers on the battlements began lowering baskets tied to ropes. Foodstuffs went up, to relieve the tedium of garrison biscuits. With those delicious parcels went wifely words, shouted from below. Scolding words, in some cases. Pleading words, in others. Downright salacious promises, in not a few.
Watching from her pavilion, Antonina counted every basket as a cannonball struck. Every wifely word, as a sapper's mine laid.
She leaned back easily in her couch, surrounded by the small horde of Nicopolis' housewives who had adopted her as their new patron saint, and savored the moment.
Great victories out of small ones.
Generals. Ha!
On the fifth day of the "siege," the first real trouble began. As one of the wives approached the fortress—this had now become a daily occurrence, almost a ritual—a small crowd of officers forced their way through the mob of soldiers standing on the battlements.
Threats were exchanged between officers and men. Then, one of the officers angrily grabbed a soldier's bow and took it upon himself to fire an arrow at the wife standing on the street below.
The arrow missed its mark, badly. The startled, squawking, outraged housewife was actually in much greater danger of being struck by the next missile hurled from the walls.
The officer himself, half-dead before he even hit the ground, fifty feet below.
The shaken housewife squawled, now, as she was spattered by his blood. Shrieked,
then, covering her head and racing from the scene, as six more officers were sent on the same fatal plunge.
The rest of the day, and into the night, the crowd standing outside the fortress could hear the sounds of brawling and fighting coming from within. Antonina herself, even from the pavilion's distance, could hear it clearly.
By now, Antonina had relented enough to allow Ashot and Hermogenes to return to Nicopolis. Some of Hermogenes' soldiers had been allowed in, as well—just enough to provide her grenadiers with an infantry bulwark in the event of a battle. But she still kept the cataphracts well out of sight.
She stood in the entry of her pavilion next to her two officers, gauging the sounds.
"It's not a full battle, yet," opined Hermogenes.
"Not even close," agreed Ashot. "What you're hearing is about a hundred little brawls and set-tos. Ambrose is losing it completely."
Hermogenes glanced sideways at Antonina. "He'll sally tomorrow. Bet on it."
Ashot nodded. "He's got to. He can't let Antonina sit out here, rotting his army out from under him."
"How many will he still have, do you think?" she asked.
Ashot shrugged. "His cataphracts. The most of them, anyway. Those aren't Egyptians. They're a Greek unit, from Paphlagonia. Been here less than a year. They won't have much in the way of local ties, and all of their officers—down to the tribunes—were handpicked by Ambrose."
He tugged his beard. "Six hundred men, let's say. Beyond that—"
Tug, tug. His eyes widened. "Mary, Mother of God. I think that's it."
Eagerly, now: "I could bring up the Thracian bucellarii. Those fat-ass garritrooper shits'd never have a chance! We'd—"
"No."
The gaze which she bestowed on Ashot was not icy, not in the least. The past few days, if nothing else, had restored her good temper. But it was still just as unyielding.
"My grenadiers I said it would be. My grenadiers it is."
Ashot sighed, but did not argue the point. Anton-ina was wearing her armor at all times, now, except when she slept. True, the sun was down. But the many candles in her pavilion still shined off her cuirass, making her seem—
Jesus, he thought, how can any woman have tits that big?
* * *
As the night wore on, the sounds of fighting within the fortress waned. Then, at daybreak, a sudden outburst erupted. Rapidly escalated to the sounds of a pitched battle.
Antonina had prepared the grenadiers the night before. By the time the battle within the fortress was in full swing, Antonina was already out on the street, in armor, on horseback. Ashot and Hermogenes sat their horses alongside her.
Ahead of them, drawn up and ready for battle, stood the Theodoran Cohort.
Three hundred of them were now armed with John of Rhodes' new handcannons. The handcannons had barrels made of welded wrought-iron staves, hooped with iron bands, mounted on wooden shoulder stocks. The barrels were about eighteen inches long, with a bore measuring approximately one inch in diameter.
The guns were loaded from reed cartridges with a measured charge in one end of the tube and a fiber wad and lead ball in the other. A hardwood ramrod recessed into the front of the stock was used to ram the charges down the barrel. The handcannons had no trigger. The charges were ignited by a slow match—tow soaked in saltpeter—held in a pivoting clamp attached to the stock.
As handheld firearms go, they were about as primitive as could be imagined. John of Rhodes had wanted to wait until he had developed a better weapon, but Belisarius had insisted on rushing these first guns into production. From experience, he had known that John would take forever to produce a gun he was finally satisfied with. The Malwa would not give them that time. These would do, for the moment.
Primitive, the guns were. Their accuracy was laughable—and many a bucellarii did laugh, during the practice sessions in Rhodes, watching the Syrian gunners miss targets at a range that any self-respecting Thracian cataphract could have hit with an arrow blind drunk. But it was noticeable that none of the scoffing cataphracts offered to serve as a target. Not after watching the effects of a heavy lead bullet which did happen to strike a target. Those balls could drive an inch into solid pine—and with far greater striking power than any arrow.
The formation into which the Cohort was drawn up was designed to take advantage of the hand-cannons. Half of the gunners were arrayed at the Cohort's front, in six lines stretching across the entire width of the boulevard, twenty-five men to a line. Squads of Hermogenes' infantry were interspersed between each line of gunners, ready to use their long pikes to hold off any cavalry who made it through the gunfire.
The other hundred and fifty gunners were lining the rooftops for fifty yards down both sides of the boulevard, ready to pour their own fire onto the street below. The rest of the Cohort, armed with grenades, stood in back of the gunners, their slings and bombs in hand.
The sounds of the fighting within the fortress seemed to be reaching a crescendo. For a moment, the gates of the fortress began to open. Then, accompanied by the steel clangor of swords on shields, swung partially shut.
"Christ," muttered Ashot. "Now that poor bastard Ambrose has to fight his way out of the fortress. What a mess that's got to be in there!"
Suddenly, the gates of the fortress opened wide. Seconds later, the first of Ambrose's cataphracts began spilling out into the street.
It was immediately obvious that the enemy cata-phracts were totally disorganized and leaderless.
"That's not a sally!" exclaimed Hermogenes. "They're just trying to get out of the fortress."
"Fuck 'em," hissed Antonina. "Euphronius!"
The Cohort commander waved, without even bothering to look back. The nearest cataphracts were not much more than two hundred yards away. Well within range for his best slingers.
"Sling-staffs!" he bellowed. "Volley!"
Twenty grenadiers standing in the rear wound up, swirled in the peculiarly graceful way of slingers, sent the missiles on their way.
His best grenadiers, those twenty, with the most proficient fuse-cutting wives. Only three of the grenades fell short. None fell wide. Only two burst too late; none, too soon.
The crowd of cataphracts jostling their way out of the fortress—perhaps four hundred, by now—were ripped by fifteen grenades bursting in their midst. Then, a moment or so later, by the belated explosions of the two whose fuses had been cut overlong.
The casualties among the cataphracts themselves were fairly light, in truth. Their heavy armor—designed to fend off dehgan lances and axes—was almost impervious to the light shrapnel of grenades. And while that armor provided little protection against concussion, a man had to be very close to a grenade blast in order to be killed by the pure force of the explosion itself.
But their horses—
The armor worn by the cavalry mounts was even heavier. But it was concentrated entirely on their heads, chests, and withers. The grenades—especially the ones which exploded near the ground—shattered their legs and spilled their intestines. And, most of all, threw even the unwounded beasts into a frenzied terror.
Ambrose's cataphracts had been nothing but a mob, anyway. Now, they were simply a mob desperately trying to get out of the line of fire. More cataphracts piled out of the gates, adding to the confusion. Another volley sailed their way. More horses were butchered.
Another volley of grenades landed in their midst.
Ambrose's loyalists dissolved completely, then. There was no thought of anything but personal safety. Breaking up into small groups—or simply as individuals—the cataphracts raced their horses down the streets of Nicopolis.
Going where? Who knows? Just—somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Anywhere common soldiers weren't rising in mutiny.
Anywhere grenades didn't rupture their bodies.
Anywhere the hot sun of Egypt didn't blind them, glancing off the great brass tits of a giantess.
Anywhere else.
A
ntonina captured the would-be Emperor two days later. In a manner of speaking.
After negotiating safe passage, a small group of Ambrose's subordinates rode up to the Prefectural Palace where Antonina now made her headquarters, accompanied by perhaps a dozen cataphracts.
And a corpse, wrapped in a linen shroud.
Ambrose, it was. The former commander of the Army of Egypt had been stabbed in the back. Several times.
He made us do it.
Loyal Romans, we are. Honest.
He made us do it.
And we'll never do it again, neither.
Nevernevernevernever.
We promise.
Antonina let it pass. She even welcomed the "loyal officers" back into the ranks of the Army of Egypt. Reduced in rank, naturally. But even that punishment, she sweetened. Partly, with an explanation that room needed to made for the new officers whom the new commander had brought with him. Mostly, with a peroration on the subject of the future riches of Roman soldiers, from Malwa booty.
The officers made no complaint. They were glad enough not to be hanged.
The only grumbling at her lenient treatment of Ambrose's cataphracts, ironically enough, came from the other soldiers in his army. They were disgruntled that the same louts they had battled in the fortress—the stinking bums who had threatened their wives, even shot arrows at one of them—were let off so lightly.
But they didn't do more than grumble—and rather quietly, at that. Their own position, after all, was a bit precarious.
Best to let bygones be bygones. All things considered.
Someone, of course, had to pay the bill. Ambrose himself being dead—which didn't stop Antonina from hanging his corpse, and leaving it to sway in the wind from the fortress' battlements—the bill was presented to Paul and the former Prefect.
Both men had been found, after the cataphracts fled, huddling in one of the fortress' chambers. Paul, still defiant; the Prefect, blubbering for mercy.
Antonina hanged the Prefect immediately. His body swayed in the wind at the great intersection at the center of the city, suspended from one of the tetra-stylon pillars.
